


I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you

by qwerty24



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwerty24/pseuds/qwerty24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words have the power to hurt, or to save.<br/>Meryl, Charlie, and all things they said, and all the things they didn't say.<br/>"Say something, I'm giving up on you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the exhibition to “Say Something” by A Great Big World that is reportedly in the works.

The combination of pain and guilt and medication is making him feel sick. Charlie leans back to rest his head against the back of the couch with a loud groan that makes Meryl turn to give him a concerned look. “Is it your ankle?” she asks, her voice warm with worry. “I’ll grab some more ice.”

“No, don’t,” he says more sharply than he means to, and she sits back down next to him, adjusting his pillows and fussing with the blanket. “I’m just so – ,” he pauses, searching for the right emotion, “ – so _angry_ that we were doing so well and then I had to be stupid and play hockey and break my ankle.” He lets out another strangled sound, wondering how it is possible that he wants to cry and hit himself at the same time.

Meryl just gives him a soft smile, and curls herself into him a little closer, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her soft frame is warm and reassuring against him, but he also knows that his adolescent mind will go into overdrive if he thinks too much about it. Before he can get too distracted she replies, “Maybe it’s good that we can take a season off. Anyway, it’s not like we’re at a total standstill. Igor practiced some lifts with Nikolai and me that you and I could try once we get back on the ice.”

Charlie balks internally at Meryl’s casual admission that she has been skating with someone else. He hopes the shock doesn’t register on his face, but he can only nod tersely and mutter a strained, “Yeah, I guess so.”

They return to watching the Red Wings game on television, but Charlie can’t seem to get the image of Meryl, _his_ Meryl, getting lifted by Nikolai out of his head. Nikolai is tall, darkand brooding, and all the things that Charlie is not. All the girls at the rink want to skate with him since his partner Viktoriya abandoned him and went back to Russia.

In his mind, he sees Nikolai skating with Meryl, both with dark hair and pale skin against the white ice, his hands on her shoulder and her waist and her thighs and _everywhere they shouldn’t be._ Charlie tries his best to banish the image, but it is only replaced by a more sinister thought.

What if Meryl doesn’t want to wait for him? He knows that there are at least a dozen, maybe more than a couple dozen eligible skaters on the senior circuit including Nikolai who would love to skate with Meryl. At this stage in their careers, sitting out a season can mean the difference between success and failure in the long run. _It’s not fair to her,_ a nagging voice in his head tells him, _you’re holding her back._

Through the fog of his agitated thoughts, he hears Meryl’s voice and sees her hands waving in front of his face, “Charlie! Charlie? Datsyuk just scored!”

“Uh…yeah, that’s great,” he says, doing a terrible job at feigning even remote excitement. All he can think is _I might never skate with you again._

She gives him a worried look, lips pursed and forehead creased. “Those pain meds must be going straight to your head. And your ankle still hurts, right? Maybe you should ask your doctor for a different prescription.” Her concerned words make him even more upset when he realizes, _I’ll be losing more than just a skating partner._ But they also make him realize that he has to ask her, has to let her know that he understands if she wants to try with someone else, even if that someone is Nikolai. It’s not fair for her to play nurse by his side when she could be on the ice training, winning medals, chasing her dreams.

“I – I was thinking that maybe, if you, uh, wanted to, uh –” _Christ,_ Charlie thinks, _now that she knows that you’re an idiot, of course she’s not going to want to skate with you anymore._

Meryl is looking at him quizzically, probably prepared to call an ambulance in case he’s having a stroke. He tries again, “I just want you to know that if you…want to change partners, I’m okay with that. You don’t have to wait for me.” The words hurt far more than he expects them to, and he wonders a bit offhandedly if this is what heartbreak feels like.

“ _God,_ Charlie,” Meryl says with a giggle, “are you sure you didn’t get hit in the head with a puck, too? You’re the _only_ partner for me. I’ll wait for as long as you need me to, even if it’s _forever._ ” _Don’t you know_ , she thinks,

_Anywhere I would've followed you._

* * *

 

All Charlie wants is to lock himself in the safety of his hotel room and throw something and maybe punch someone, preferably himself. But there are all these _goddamned_ cameras and Igor is saying something and _Jesus Christ_ he doesn’t think he can breathe.

All Meryl wants is to get Charlie alone and talk to him, really talk him, and tell him _it’s okay, things happen, ice is slippery._ She wants to remind him that they still have their free dance tomorrow, and that she trusts him and that above all, _they are a team._ But Igor is being a bit of an asshole – _two left feet today, Charlie? –_ and she can’t find his inhaler in the side pocket where it’s supposed to be, and she thinks she just might start crying.

_And I will stumble and fall._

There’s no denying that their original dance was downright disastrous. This has never happened to them in run-throughs during practice, let alone during a Grand Prix. Falling once is bad enough, but three times is like something out of a nightmare. She finally finds Charlie’s inhaler and she wants to get mad at him for not putting it where he’s supposed to – _what if you had an asthma attack and I couldn’t find it? –_ but he has already left without his skate bag or jacket. She excuses herself from the mix zone and changes into her normal clothes and shoes, not bothering to wait for a post-competition talk from Igor.

Meryl’s more than a little worried about Charlie. Something’s been off with him all morning. Unbidden, all sorts of possibilities go through her head. _Maybe he hurt himself and didn’t tell me? Maybe something happened back home? Maybe he’s sick?_ More than anything though, she feels angry at herself for not being there for him. _You should have asked him what was wrong. He’s always there for you, but you’re never there for him._

She rushes back to the hotel, the Moscow air biting and cold at her tail. When she steps out of the elevator at their floor, she sees Charlie at the end of the hallway sitting against the door to his room, shoulders slumped, head in his hands. He looks up at the noise and calls out almost sheepishly, “I didn’t have my room key.”

Charlie has always been the rock of their partnership, the one who catches her when she falls, even if it’s at the expense of himself. But right now, he looks so small, and when Meryl reaches down to help him up, he seems unsteady.

She unlocks and opens his door and follows him in. He goes to sit on the bed, and she slips off her shoes to join him cross-legged on top of the rumpled sheets. She remembers their senior Grand Prix debut at Skate Canada, how she had run into the boards during their free dance and fallen, and how Charlie had held her afterwards while she sniffled into his costume, _I don’t belong here._ She remembers how Charlie had whispered while he held her, _we came in fourth, Meryl; we’re going places!_ and how she fell asleep in his arms, and how Scott had teased her relentlessly the next morning –  _I heard Chuckie stayed the night –_ and how Tessa had giggled and Charlie had thrown daggers at Scott with his eyes.

She remembers how much she’s always needed Charlie, and how he’s always been there for her, so she reaches out to draw him into a hug, but instead of his arms enveloping hers in a familiar embrace, she feels his heated breath against her cheek, and then his lips against hers, soft yet insistent, an unspoken desperation in the way his hands reach up to fist her hair.

Once, after a particularly fiery practice session of Eleanor Rigby which had involved Marina screaming “You have to _want_ her, Charlie!” he had pushed Meryl up against the boards and kissed her impulsively, _see, this is how much I want you._

He tastes like mint and vanilla, just like she remembers from the first time, sharp and sweet, and she moans involuntarily. He opens his mouth like he is trying to swallow the sound, and deepens the kiss as if he is trying to consume her. She runs her hands through his hair, and feels his teeth graze her bottom lip.

Her hands wander down his neck to his shoulders and her nails scrape down his back until she reaches the hem of his shirt. She tugs at it demandingly because she wants to _feel_ him. He relents easily, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it onto the floor. And then Meryl's hands are _all over him_ and it's his turn to moan into the hollow of her neck and bite down just hard enough that he'll leave a mark.

_I'll be the one if you want me to._

"Maybe we shouldn't," she gets out between gasps as his tongue laves against a spot above her collarbone. Charlie only grunts impatiently and presses his body more firmly against hers.

He paws at her shirt and is frustrated when he realizes that there are _buttons_ that need to be dealt with, so he works his way down until he gets to her pants. _Can I?_ he asks with his eyes and she nods as he undoes the zipper and peels her skin-tight jeans off of her legs, tracing the bare skin almost reverently with his fingers.

He realizes that she has finally undone all of the buttons on her top and is almost naked in front of him save for her bra and underwear. He is startled momentarily by just how beautiful she is. Not in a vain, visceral kind of way, but in a way born of knowledge and longing, of knowing how her muscles feel beneath his fingers, of knowing that the raised scar on her left thigh is from his toe pick when they were twelve, of knowing how easily she bruises, the skin above her right rib cage a map of different shades of healing from the repetitive trauma of their opening lift.

He reaches out to touch the yellowish-purple patch of skin, and follows with his lips, nipping gently and leaving open mouthed kisses, trying to apologize for hurting her, for falling, for _everything._

" _God,"_ she sighs breathily beneath him, and a part of him wants to answer, _Nope, it's just me,_ but the tension is too thick, and he wants this too badly to screw it up with a joke. He reaches underneath her, and she squirms impatiently against him when he struggles to unclasp her bra.

"I want to touch you," she murmurs and he feels her hand against the front of his pants. He groans openly, and shifts his weight to distract himself. "Too many clothes," Meryl chastises as she works his belt. When her hand finally touches him after divesting him of his pants and underwear, he has to grit his teeth to keep himself from coming right then like an inexperienced teenager.

He reaches down to still her hand, and she gives him a disappointed pout which is quickly replaced by a surprised _oh,_ as he pulls the last remaining piece of flimsy lace off of her body and replaces it with his fingers. "More _, please,_ " she hums against his chest and he moves downward, kissing, biting, the thought of leaving a mark against her porcelain skin turning him on.

He dips his head between her legs and he can tell that she is already close by the way she tightens around his fingers and bucks against him. " _Charlie,_ " she calls out as she comes apart, knuckles white against the bed sheet she is gripping.

Her breathing is ragged, and while he waits for it to even out, he gets a condom from an empty Altoids tin he keeps in his backpack and puts it on. Her breaths are steady now, but he holds off until she begins writhing impatiently beneath him to settle himself against her, hot and heavy.

"Are you sure?" he whispers into the soft curve of her ear, and the question seems virginal and stupid, but he needs to know.

"I've never been more sure of anything," she replies into his mouth with a small smile, feeding him with her reassurances as he lines himself up and thrusts.

She claws at his shoulders and rakes her nails down his back, leaving light pink parallel lines in her wake. He already feels like he's losing control, and he tilts her head up for a bruising kiss, all tongue and teeth and desire. She can taste herself on him and it's unbelievably hot, and she wants this to last, but she can sense herself unraveling.

"Fuck, Charlie, _please,"_ she cries out, not exactly sure what she wants from him, and in the next instant, her name escapes from his lips in another strangled cry and she shatters, shaking and shuddering beneath him.

Afterwards, she waits for him to say something: _we shouldn't have done that,_ or _I love you,_ or _we can pretend like it never happened._ But he says nothing, and his breathing becomes shallower, and she realizes that he has fallen asleep.

When he wakes up the next morning, Meryl is gone, only the lingering smell of lavender and the raised lines on his back to remind him of what they shared.

_I'm still learning to love,_

_just starting to crawl._

They skate beautifully that day, and make it onto the podium. But the bronze medals around their necks are heavy, full of unspoken words and promises they cannot keep.

* * *

 

The first thing that Charlie notices about Meryl when they return to regular training from the off-season is that she is _different._ There's no other way to put it really. The way she carries herself, the way she talks, the way she dresses, even the way she skates. It's not better or worse, it's just – different.

Charlie tries to tell himself that it's none of his business, but one day, when she shows up to practice and he realizes that he can still smell _is that alcohol?_ on her breath, he decides that at the very least he has the right to ask. She's clearly not drunk or hungover or anything, but it bothers him beyond measure to know that she's been drinking.

He pulls her aside during their lunch break to confront her. "Were you drinking last night?" he asks without preamble, and an expression he can't quite read flashes across her face before she looks at him apologetically and says, "Yeah, I'm sorry. I woke up late and didn't get to brush my teeth. I should've known better. It's just that Fedor came over and –" she clasps her hand over her mouth but it's too late.

Charlie's fingers clench and unclench at his sides, and he can feel a slow, warm rage begin to pool in the pit of his stomach. It's not so much that he dislikes Fedor, it's more that he absolutely detests the idea of Fedor, Canton's number one player and womanizer, liquoring up and bedding his partner.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Meryl says, "I should've told you sooner, but it's nothing serious. We're just, you know, seeing each other casually." Although she probably means to placate him, this only makes him angrier. _You're too good for him in the first place, and now you're letting him use you_ casually?

He hates to admit it, but the fact that Meryl is in a relationship with Fedor makes him look at her in a different light. And only then does he notice the hickeys on her neck and collarbone that she has tried to cover with makeup. He scans over her body again, searching in a sort of masochistic way for other ways that Fedor has laid claim over his partner.

He notices some bruises in the shape of handprints on her forearms, and at first he thinks they must be from practice. _But wait,_ he reminds himself, _we haven't practiced any lifts yet, I couldn't have given her those._

A blind rage suddenly overtakes him, and he grabs her wrist to turn her arm upward to expose the still fresh purple and blue splotches. _That son of a bitch, I'm going to kill that fucker,_ and even he is a little startled by the intensity of his thoughts. "Did he do this to you?" he demands, and the words are louder and more forceful than he intends.

When she flinches back in shock, it is like a splash of cold water to his face. Immediately, guilt rushes over him and he releases her arm, taking a step backward. "I'm so sorry, Meryl. I don't know what got into me." Lately, it seems like all they do is apologize to one another.

_And I am feeling so small,_

_It was over my head,_

_I know nothing at all._

She shakes her head. "No, it's not your fault," she pauses for a moment to cross her arms in front of her so that he cannot scrutinize them. "And it's not what you think. Fedor's not like that. Sometimes we just need to...blow off steam, and he can get rough. That's all."

Charlie stares at her slack-jawed for a long moment, before turning around to go outside. He needs some air. He's not sure what pains him more, the fact that he had it in him to lash out at Meryl, or the image of her underneath Fedor, arms pinned above her head, his name on her lips.

A few minutes later, she joins him outside and wraps herself around him from behind, resting her head against his back. "We're bigger than all of this. We've got bigger dreams, Charlie," she tells him.

"I know, Mer," he answers, and he really believes it.

* * *

 

It turns out that they really do have bigger dreams.

And when those dreams come true, when they are standing on the podium, gold medals and flashing cameras and front-page headlines and all, none of it matters except that they achieved it all together.

_I love you, Meryl,_ he had said, and it scared him how easy it was. Yet, there was no doubt in his mind what her response would be: _I love you, too._

In the weeks and months that followed, he said those words to her every chance he had, _I love you, I love you, I love you so much it hurts._

He doesn't know if he is making up for all the times in the past when he should've, but didn't say it, or for all the times in the future when he won't be able to. 

* * *

 

Even for Los Angeles, the air is unusually thick and clammy. When the words come out of Charlie’s mouth, the _I’m going to propose to her_ murmured so softly Meryl isn’t sure if she’s heard correctly, he tells himself it is the humidity that makes him feel like he is drowning.

For an instant so brief he thinks he might have imagined it, something between disappointment and resignation crosses her face. Maybe he wants her to object so badly that he has simply fantasized it. But whatever fleeting sadness is replaced by a wide smile and arms reaching out to him for a hug. “I’m so happy for you and Tanith,” she hums into the crook of his neck, and the feeling of her warm breath against his skin makes him want to take it all back.

“I think I’m going to do it in Hawaii,” he says dumbly as Meryl pulls away from their embrace, his arms still hanging limply in mid-air, wishing she could stay in them forever.

She nods enthusiastically, maybe too much so, and replies, taking his outstretched hand into her own, “That sounds great, she’ll love it.”

Charlie sees her mouth move, knows that she is offering words of encouragement he does not deserve, but he’s not really listening. All he knows is that he wants Meryl to _say something,_ anything, if only to tell him _maybe we’ll get another chance, you and I._ But she doesn’t. Charlie realizes in that moment, her hand clasped tightly in his – _I’m squeezing too hard,_ he thinks – that this is the end. He knows that it should feel like a beginning, with all the promise and buoyancy of spring, but the twisting in his gut, and the smile on her face that is starting to look strained, remind him of all the chances they had and never took, of all the times he could’ve said, _we could try._ And now he is here, and it is the end, and he understands: _this is what it feels like to lose someone._

Charlie realizes that Meryl is waiting for him to speak, but there are no words left. They have no vocabulary for this kind of loss, for this kind of grief. He had always thought of them as a team: Meryl and Charlie, Davis and White, but now, the burning in his chest reminds him that they are more than that, two halves of a whole, so that this cleaving creates a physical ache, as if she is being ripped away from the inside. They will still see each other, still skate together, but those moments won’t belong to just the two of them anymore. Those moments won’t be filled with possibility, only closure and finality, a way to ease into the reality of goodbye.

“I love her so much,” he says without thinking, and it comes out as a choked whisper, cutting between them with a suddenness that makes Meryl pull back. Charlie is not sure where the declaration comes from. Maybe he is trying to give her an explanation or an opportunity to refute him. _No,_ he wants Meryl to say, _you love_ me.

But instead, she simply smiles weakly at him and replies, “Of course you do. Tanith loves you too.” Her small hand is so cold in his, and he digs his nails in deeper to the flesh of her palm as if he is trying to take a piece of her with him. The air is still stagnant and sticky, and he still feels like he is drowning, but in a moment of clarity he grasps that he does love Tanith, but Meryl – he _needs_ Meryl. _I don’t think I can learn to live without you._ He doesn’t deserve Tanith, not after everything she’s done for him – she moved halfway across the country, then waited for years, and was always the warm body he knew he could go back to.

But Meryl is more than the sum of what she’s done for him. He can’t remember a life before her, and can’t imagine a life after her. She’s the air that he breathes, and every piece of him has been marked irrevocably by her. Charlie still remembers the way the words tasted the first time he said them: _I love you, Meryl._ He remembers how simple it was, like he had been waiting a lifetime to tell her. He wants to repeat that affirmation to her again, but instead, all that comes out is an apology, the words bitter like bile, “I’m sorry.” _I’m so sorry, Meryl._

_I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you._

He grips her hand tighter, and he can feel the crescent moon shapes that his nails have left in her skin. He wants her to _say something. Please, anything._

What he doesn’t know is that she wants the same thing. _Sixteen years_ – they always say that they’ve known each other for so long that they can tell what the other is thinking. But there are some words that need to be spoken, some things that only become real when they face the light of day. Meryl thinks that maybe that’s where they went wrong; they spent so long in silence, wordless. _Say something, I’m giving up on you._

It surprises her how much letting go and moving on can feel like giving up. _We’re both adults,_ she tells herself. They’ve come so far, accomplished so much together, and now they are starting over. _We couldn’t have had forever, anyway,_ she tells herself. But a voice in her head screams, _Yes, yes we could have._

His hand is clutching hers so tightly that it stings. _I’m sorry too,_ she wants to say. _I’m sorry we never tried. I’m sorry we’re always hurting each other. I’m sorry._ Meryl knows that they will both drown here if she doesn’t pull them back to the surface, so she slowly extracts her hand from his grip and says in a voice barely above a whisper, “I meant it, Charlie.”

He doesn’t need her to explain. _I meant it, too. I meant it when I said I loved you. I always will._ But his throat feels like it is on fire, and his hand feels like it has been branded by where hers once was. All he can do is nod, eyes locked on Meryl, trying to memorize her like this before he lets her go for good.

She’s not sure how long they stay like that, sitting across from one another, the Los Angeles sun beating down on them. She does know that when she finally gets up, finally breaks the surface and takes a deep breath, hungry for air, Charlie is still motionless and silent. On instinct, she reaches out to brush a stray golden curl from his face, but when her fingers touch his cheek, he pulls back like she has burned him.

Charlie watches Meryl leave, sees her disappear around a corner. A part of him wants to chase after her, fold her into him and tell her, _I’ll never let you go again._ Instead, he stays rooted to his chair, the sun setting behind him, casting shadows that remind him of her all over again.

Before he finally gets up, he breathes into the night, “Maybe someday we’ll find each other again.” _Yes,_ he thinks, _one day, maybe in another life, when we don’t have skating, when we’re young and reckless, when I know all the right words to say, we’ll find each other again._ The dark cocoons him as he walks back to his car, the sound of his voice still lingering behind him. He’s worried that he won’t remember his promise, but years later, he will wonder why he can never forget it.

_You’re the one that I love,_

_and I’m saying goodbye._


End file.
